by Guy N Smith
Eric Atkinson pulled Marlene along with him, hurrying, almost dragging her; not knowing where he was going only that his instincts screamed at him to be away from this place of artificiality which stank of death and fear.
Run. Hide. Anywhere, but not here.
CHAPTER SIX
JON QUINN sweated as he pushed the starter-button on the Land Rover. On the fifth attempt the engine coughed into life, emitted a cloud of black smoke, threatened to die, but he jammed his foot on the accelerator and just caught it in time. During those few awful moments he thought that it had packed up on him in his hour of greatest need. He sighed his relief audibly, let the engine tick over, the rattling vibrations of the meccano-like bodywork sweet music in his ears. When he got back he would park it on the slope facing downwards, jump-start it next time if he had to.
He checked the petrol gauge. Half-full; five gallons averaging 18 mpg. Ninety miles before he ran dry. There was an old-fashioned garage in the next village that still had a hand-operated pump; probably the majority of electrically-powered ones were out of commission by now. Tomorrow he would have a run over and fill up, take as many empty five-gallon oil drums with him as he could find, stock up before everybody else got the same idea. If there was anybody else left.
He didn't relish the prospect of venturing into civilised parts, not even remote villages. He was scared of what he might find. But he would have to do it sooner or later. Oh God, if only Jackie was here. There had never really been anything wrong between them, just a steady drifting apart that neither of them had made the effort to check. And now it was too late.
The engine was ticking over steadily, sounded smoother than it had done for months. He let in the clutch, reversed slowly out into the lane. It was about a mile and a half to Gwyther's farm, the road following on round the hill, barely the width of the Land Rover. In summer you drove cautiously in case you met an oncoming vehicle, the straggling overgrown hedge restricting your vision. But there was no chance of meeting anybody today. Or ever again, if you were pessimistic. Realistic.
A half-grown rabbit scurried across his path, jumped to. safety in the long grass. It looked perfectly normal. Maybe the rabbits were all right because for most of the time they lived below ground. Foxes and badgers would probably be OK, too.
The lane rose sharply. Down into second gear, only when there was ice about did he have to resort to bottom. Not hurrying, letting the vehicle take its time because he didn't really want to go to Gwyther's at all. The twelve-bore was in the back, both barrels loaded—He didn't like carrying a loaded gun in a vehicle but this was an emergency. He wouldn't feel safe without it.
The Land Rover made the sharp incline, its revs urging him to change up a gear now that the lane was level again. High up, virtually on the top, slowing to look back down and seeing his own place. One day he must bring the camera up here and take a photograph of it. Every year aerial photographers flew over and then tried to sell you their work for extortionate sums. He'd do just that one day, a D-I-Y job, for kicks. Jackie would have liked that. You couldn't quite see Gwyther's yet because it was further on, beyond the Knoll, and when you did see it you could almost convince yourself that you had stepped back in time. Nothing had changed since Bill's father's day and probably wouldn't now. A slow process of decay, timbered outbuildings patched up, moss growing on them; mud and cattle dung so deep that in winter you needed four-wheel drive to get in and out of the yard.
The lane was starting a downward slope now, the final run-in to Gwyther's. Jon let his foot rest on the brake, slowed up more than he needed to. He didn't really have to call on the old man. Damn it, he didn't bother in normal times, avoided it whenever possible, only went there when it was necessary. It was necessary now, oh Christ, it was.
He rounded the bend, saw the farm; just as it had always been except that part of the big cowshed roof had finally caved in. More than likely the storm the other night had been responsible for that. Slowly he eased the Land Rover into the yard, eyes scanning the rectangular tract of hard baked mud with only the odd puddle or two showing below the outbuilding walls. Dereliction at its worst, stable doors tied up with binder string, a heap of scrap, outdated broken machinery that should have been cleared a quarter of a century ago littering one corner. But no sign of life.
Jon came to a halt in front of the house, switched the engine off and prayed that it would start again when he wanted it to. Sitting there, watching and waiting, aware that his pulses were pounding. He was sweating and it wasn't just because of the heat.
He didn't like coming here, always felt ill at ease. The old boy hated you, you could see it in those bright blue eyes as they bored into you. What right have you coming here from the town and buying a place? There are plenty of farmers' sons who were forced to move away to find work who ought to have your holding. They've a right to it, you haven't. It's heritage that counts, not deeds and fancy title papers. You won't do any good here with your daft ideas. Sheep and cattle are farming, nothing else. You're playing at it.
Jon took a deep breath, reached over in the back for the shotgun. What are you bringing a gun here for, boy? He almost drew his hand away. No, he'd take the gun because he might need it. That dog could be around, or the bull might be loose.
His gaze was drawn automatically towards the end stone building, the one where Gwyther's bull lived. The door hung wide, a T-hinge broken so that it dragged on the ground. He could see inside; it was empty, no sign of the bull!
Another twinge of unease. Well, the bull had to be grazed sometimes, left to run with the cows. Probably that was where it was now, in one of the lower meadow fields down by the river.
Slowly Jon Quinn slid out of the Land Rover, grasped the gun in his right hand, stood looking about him. The place always looked this way, it had never been any different. Old Bill spent 365 days a year working in the fields the hard way because he didn't know anything else. Out at first light and back in at dusk. Oil-lamps instead of electric lights. But he did have a telephone! It had caused a stir amongst the other hill-farmers when word got around that a Telecom van had been seen there, two men running out a cable from the Elbow. Old Bill surely wouldn't be having the phone put in because even if he did he wouldn't know how to use it. Bill Gwyther didn't, he only took incoming calls in his own inimitable way and his quarterly bill was never more than the cost of the rental. Another unsolved mystery, but you didn't ask because his answer wouldn't enlighten you any.
Jon sized up the house. The door and window frames probably hadn't seen a coat of paint since before the war. Most of the frames were rotten but they would only be replaced when they fell out, A couple of panes were cracked, maybe deliberately left uncleaned so that nobody could see in. You were never asked in the house whatever your business.
He walked slowly towards the front door. Usually the dog barked a warning but not today. Total silence except for the distant bleating of sheep and a buzzard mewing somewhere up on the Hill.
He reached the door, paused; a schoolboy about to tap on the door of the headmaster's study. I'm awfully sorry to trouble you, sir, but. . . Swallowing, nervous. What is it, boy? What brings you round here?
It's your dog, Mr Gwyther. He's killed one of my calves, turned feral.
Not my dog, boy. He's been chained up here all the time, hasn't been loose. Somebody else's dog. The door dragged shut, end of conversation.
Anger gripped Jon Quinn. No bloody fear, Gwyther wasn't getting out of this just because he thought he owned the Hill. It was his dog and he'd have to pay. The dog would have to be put down. If necessary he would call the . . . no, there wouldn't be any police now and even if there were they would have more important things to do than to chase after killer dogs. He'd bloody well shoot it himself!
He rapped the woodwork, winced at the pain in his knuckles. The door looked as though it was rotten like everything else around here but in fact it was solid oak. He stood back and waited.
A couple of minutes and he was conv
inced that there was nobody here, not in the house anyway. Logically that wasn't surprising because Gwyther worked all the daylight hours. He had to be around the buildings somewhere, or else out in the fields. Jon Quinn would find him wherever he was.
He checked the outbuildings. A long cattle-shed that hadn't been mucked out for a year or two, fresh straw constantly spread on the oid in a continual deep-litter system. Flies swarmed, huge bluebottles bloated with the filth they had eaten. They settled again, continued feeding.
An implement shed that would have been an exhibit in a farm museum, an array of horse-brasses hanging from nails knocked in a rafter. The floor was a carpet of rat droppings.
But no sign of Bill Gwyther. Jon stood there in the yard wondering what to do. Should he go and search the fields? Or should he go back home and come again later? Both would, in all probability, be a waste of time, and he did not want to leave Sylvia alone longer than was absolutely necessary. Neither did he want to have to come back here again. The only time he was likely to find Gwyther at home would be after dark. After dark! His spine tingled at the thought. No way; once dusk came he was going to lock himself in his own cottage with Sylvia and . . .
A footfall, so soft that it was barely audible, some sixth sense warning him before his ears picked it up. He turned, stared; told himself that it could not be, that nothing like (hat could possibly exist. It was his imagination. But he had not imagined the goats and the hens; unbelievable as they had seemed, they were real. And so, therefore, was this . . . thing that stood only a few yards from him, frozen into immobility now that its furtive stalk had been discovered. It had been in the act of creeping upon him with a broken rusted pitchfork, its intention to plunge the sharp twin prongs into his back as he stood there unaware of its presence.
Jon Quinn's first thought was that the creature was some' kind of ape, a zoo specimen which had escaped and taken to the hills. It had happened with other animals in the past, not too far from here. The body was covered by sparse hair, sandy coloured but greying with age. No more than five feet in height, arms and legs ridiculously short in proportion to the rest of its body. The face was squat, lips pouted then drawing back to show a toothless mouth, close-set eyes narrowed into an expression of curiosity, turning to animosity. A balding head.
Recognition came slowly to Jon Quinn because even when he realised he still refused to believe. The blue eyes, the toothless mouth, the stance stamped with arrogance. In the end he was faced with the possibility that the thing standing before him might be none other than Bill Gwyther! A possibility that merged into a probability. Then a certainty.
Oh Merciful God! Then this is what has happened to the human race; reduced to this!
Gwyther, and it surely was him, was giving a series of low grunts, unintelligible animal noises that were obviously not intended to be friendly. Their interpretation was anybody's guess. 'What're you doin' here, boy?' Advancing another step, stopping again, the pitchfork lifted so that it rested at hip-level, its wicked points trained on Jon Quinn's stomach.
'Mr Gwyther?' Jon felt incredibly stupid, but somehow he had to say something. 'Mister' because he always called the old man 'Mister'. Everybody round here did, even the older generation of farmers. Just as Gwyther called them all 'boy'. A mark of respect in a way, underlining the generation gap because Gwyther had always been 'Old Gwyther' even in their fathers' days.
They stood looking at each other and in those few seconds a picture flashed across Jon's mind, one that he had seen only comparatively recently. His brain had absorbed the image, thrown it out now like a computer processing relevant data. An artist's impression framed on a local museum wall, captioned 'A Stone Age Man'. And with a feeling of uneasiness Jon Quinn reflected that that unknown artist had done his homework pretty thoroughly; the shape of the head in relation to the squat body and short arms and legs, tiny eyes, pouted mouth. Like one of those police identikit pictures.
And it had come up with Bill Gwyther! Jon Quinn took a deep breath, drew himself up to his full height, tensed every muscle in his body. There was no way they could communicate, no compromise. Modern Man faced primitive Man, enemies because it could not be any other way.
Jon knew exactly what the other had in mind, what he was going to do. No warning. Foe had met up with foe and one of them had to die. They both accepted the fact. Slowly he eased the gun up into the crook of his arm, pushed the safety catch forward with a faint click. He was not even trembling now that he had made his decision. There could be only one outcome and he must be the one who finally walked away; the victor.
Again that inexplicable sixth sense precipitated the action. He saw the wicked double prongs start to move, coming towards him spear-like, balanced for the final thrust. And in that instant he pushed the gun forward, found the triggers and fired a double blast from the hip.
The shotgun bucked in his hands, threw him back, but he scarcely noticed the recoil. He didn't want to see, wished that he had missed, maybe fired a warning shot over the other's head but it was too late for recriminations. Concentrated balled shot at a range of three yards disintegrated Gwyther's head, put a gaping bloody hole where the face had been, embedded bone splinters in the barn door directly behind him, sprayed ribbons of flesh up the stonework so that it dripped grey matter like an old man's phlegm, pink with blood from a diseased lung.
The pitchfork clattered to the ground, the hairy body swayed but still remained standing, tottering in defiance, nerves still working. Quinn smelied the powdersmoke, coughed. Drop, you bastard, for Christ's sake drop!
The bloodied morass which had once been Bill Gwyther's features still had an expression if you stared at it long enough. A jagged hole, twisted into a snarl of fury. You haven't finished with me yet, boy. A gaping orifice spouting crimson hate, eyebrows twitching, arms jerking like a hen's wings preparatory to a clumsy attempted flight.
I'm coming to get you, boy!
Jon flung up the gun, remembered it was empty. Two spent cases still trickling smoke up the tubes. A roaring in his ears, mocking laughter. Bare calloused feet with blackened broken toenail claws moved one more pace. A pace nearer.
Backing away, screaming something because he couldn't hold it back; fear, an apology, I didn't want to kill you, Mister Gwyther.
You haven't killed me yet, boy.
And then Gwyther fell, arms outstretched as though he was making one last despairing lunge at the one who had done this to him, spraying blood from where his mouth should have been, falling full-length and sending up a cloud of dust out of a dried-up puddle.
Jon Quinn just stood there looking down at him. He wanted to laugh, to cry, both at the same time but he did neither. Seconds that might have been hours then he was walking towards the Land Rover, climbing in and putting the gun in the back.
The engine fired first time but he never thought it would do otherwise because it was still warm. A U-turn that took him back out through the gateway and on to the road, reminding himself that he had to park on that slope, facing downwards, so that he could jump-start the Land Rover tomorrow. Some strange protective brain mechanism had pushed the bloody killing to the back of his mind.
Otherwise he might have gone mad.
CHAPTER SEVEN
PROFESSOR REITZE irritated the Prime Minister; he irritated the other senior cabinet ministers. In fact he irritated everybody in the top security shelter in the Hertfordshire countryside. But that was his prerogative for without his awareness, his knowledge of the perils of germ warfare, there was a possibility that the entire population of Western Europe would have been wiped out. It was he who had alerted them to the danger, recognised what was in the atmosphere.
Close-cropped hair, it was difficult to judge what colour it was, an inch of growth would have been necessary to be sure. Rimless glasses that gave the impression of owlish eyes in that angular face. Always the white smock, you didn't even know what he wore beneath it or whether he wore anything at all. Characterless, even his American accent wa
s lost in his dull monotone voice. The perfect scientist, a human machine.
He sat at his low desk, blinked in the brightness of the strip lighting, thumbed through sheafs of typewritten paper and made occasional notes in his sprawling handwriting on a jotter pad. The glass ashtray by his elbow was piled with Camel stubs, the fingers of his right hand stained brown, the one indication that the man was actually human, he did have a vice.
The Prime Minister took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Anxiety, exasperation. He had said repeatedly that 'we must remain calm1 but there was a limit. And Reitze went beyond that limit.
Caldecott was in his fourth year of office. Next year he had to face an election; he had considered calling one earlier before inflation and unemployment figures began soaring again but now all that was forgotten. There might well never be another government or even a next year. In his early forties, he had a deceptive boyish appearance, one that a lot of people had underestimated, including the Opposition. Forceful, disliked in many quarters, he was finding it difficult to curb his impatience with Reitze. He glanced across at Rankine, the Defence Minister, read exasperation there, too. But both of them knew the Professor well enough not to try to hassle him.
The reports are still coming in.' Reitze leaned back in his chair, shook another Camel out of a crumpled pack, flicked his lighter. 'We are now beginning to form an overall picture of what has happened both in the United States and the European countries.' Slow expressionless tones, he might have been discussing the latest trade figures. He drew on his cigarette, scribbled something else on his pad. 'The timing of the release of these microorganisms into the atmosphere was meticulously synchronised so that all major areas of population in America were struck simultaneously with the UK. Of course, it was easier to conduct an intensive attack upon Britain than a vast area such as the United States.'
